


You put the lime in the coconut (and add the pineapple)

by sirona



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Get Together, M/M, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, cocktails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny hates that he has to go undercover with Steve <i>again</i>, at a gay bar no less. He doesn't even know how he's supposed to flirt with the goof --without giving his ridiculous crush away, that is. Still, he has to give it to Steve -- the guy makes a <i>mean</i> cocktail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You put the lime in the coconut (and add the pineapple)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the h50_exchange over on LJ. Thanks as ever to my wonderful SuperBeta zolac_no_miko.

Danny stares at himself in the mirror, trying not to hyperventilate. Thing is, right, _thing is_ , he's standing on extremely very thin ice right this second, okay, and unless his ears deceive him it is starting to _creak_. He fiddles with the collar of his pink-and-charcoal-grey-striped shirt, fighting the urge to button those five open buttons back up ( _five, seriously_ ). He looks like some sort of ‘jiggloo’, like his Grandma Betty used to say, with a filthy twinkle in her eye that never failed to mortify Danny into changing clothes and resolutely _not_ asking questions about where she learned that word. Still, here he is, looking very much like a, yes, man for hire, attempting to reconcile that image with the fact that he is, in fact, a divorced father of one and a police officer to boot. And he's supposed to spend the evening flirting with his boss and embarrassing unrequited crush. Because what kind of guy got a crush on his unattainable male boss, him of the tattoos and the muscles and the determined glares and the stupid faces and the eye-crinkles and the--

Uh. What was he talking about again?

"Danny, are you done in there already?" Kono yells through the flimsy door, and Danny straightens his back and prepares to face the music.

"Are you sure about this? I'm not sure about this. I look like an idiot. Don't you think I look like an idiot?"

Kono's eyes slide down his stocky frame, beyond obviously approving.

"I think you look just fine," she drawls. Danny fights not to blush. He does not _blush_ , for fuck's sake, _ever_. His fingers stray towards his shirt's open collar again.

"Touch that and I'll cut them off," Kono threatens cheerfully, coming closer to tug his waistband a little lower. Danny slaps her hands away, scandalized.

"Kono Kalakaua! Hands off!" he yelps, voice a touch higher than it should be. Oh god, he is going to _die_ before the night is over.

Just then the door to Steve's office opens and the menace himself steps out, smugly tugging at the hem of his--well. Calling it a T-shirt would be a disservice to all self-respecting clothing out there. That--that _thing_ clings to Steve's body like it's loathe to let him go, caressing every muscle on show and then some. A rainbow button is pinned over his left pec, which Danny assumes is that tiny state-of-the-art camera Chin's been asking for all this time. His jeans are so tight they look painted on, yet Steve appears utterly comfortable in them, like they're an extension of his skin, and Danny should really, _really_ stop thinking along those lines right this minute.

"Do I look okay?" Steve asks, actually _asks_ , like he _doesn't know_ what he looks like in _that_ , and Danny has to stifle hysterical laughter by chewing on a knuckle. _Okay?_ No one in their right mind would describe McGarrett as _okay_ right now. _Delicious, delectable, lickable, fuckable_ \-- sure. Those are all fine members of the English language that would only be happy to apply themselves to the way McGarrett looks right now.

"You're fine, stop fidgeting," Chin says from behind him. Danny has to close his eyes a moment to compose himself. His pants feel traitorously tight.

"I'll say," Kono says, propping herself back against the computer table and leering.

"Stop buttering up your superior officer," Steve says, although his lips are twitching.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," Kono drawls with a wink.

"All right, all right, stop trying to make them uncomfortable," Chin says mildly, which is the most flimsily disguised endorsement Danny's ever heard in his life. Traitor. Just because Chin is exempt from leering for reasons of being family.

He might be a little off his game tonight, Danny's the first to admit it. Just a little, mind, let's not get carried away.

"So, do we look like a gay soon-to-be couple?" Steve asks, bouncing on the back of his heels in anticipation of getting to the "let's-blow-shit-up" part of the night.

Danny chokes on his own spit.

Chin comes to lean onto the table next to Kono, and the cousins give them a thorough check out. Danny shifts uncomfortably, completely convinced that every inappropriate thought he's ever had about Steve "Six-Pack" McGarrett is etched onto his not inconsiderable forehead.

"You'll do," Chin says at last, a sly grin stretching over his face.

"I still don't know why _you_ couldn't go undercover with him for a change," Danny grumbles. "How am I supposed to flirt with this guy anyway?"

Chin and Kono stare at them uncomprehendingly for a moment before a hilariously constipated look passes over both their faces.

"Uh," Kono says, eyes a little glazed.

"Just act like you normally do, you'll be fine," Chin says in a strangled voice.

Danny determinedly does not look at Steve, even if he can feel Steve's eyes burning a hole in the side of his head. "All right then," he says, clapping his hands. "Let's get this thing over with."

\---

The bar is dark and loud in a way that makes Danny feel desperately old, music pumping from every corner and drowning out even the most determined conversation. He keeps his eyes peeled, looking for their perp, a 5'3'', lean, ginger-haired Caucasian male, according to Tom Freer, one of the guy's most recent victims and the only one to have caught a good look at him before he and his boyfriend were set upon by the vicious little asswipe. Danny fucking hates cowards like that, people who put a face to their hatred of the world and go after it with extreme prejudice. Tom is a 23-year-old Biology student at the University of Hawai'i, and his boyfriend Makaio is an advertising exec. Nothing threatening, nothing harmful, except for someone who's made it his mission to rid the world of "the gays". Danny's stomach rolls just thinking about it. For once he's really kinda hoping that Steve would get to this guy first, because if Danny's the one to catch him, he honestly does not know what he might do to him before Steve pulls him off the dickwad's limp body.

No sign of anyone matching that description, though, and it's one that would stick out like a sore thumb in a sea of toned, tanned, half-naked bodies. Nothing for it, then. He is going to have to go ahead with the plan. Heart sinking and beating fast at the same time, Danny heads for the bar and the too-familiar barman behind it.

He can feel Steve's eyes on him like a brand as he approaches, even though Steve is extremely careful not to look like he's watching Danny. Their whole cover story depends on them being able to pretend that this is the first time they've laid eyes on each other. And therein lies the rub. Because Danny can all-too-easily imagine that this really is the first time he's meeting the 6'1'' infuriatingly attractive wall of muscle, and just how things might go from there if they really were just two guys meeting in a gay bar for the first time. Danny is going to have to be so, so careful to play the part yet not show his hand. Because to nab their man, they are going to have to be _obvious_ , visible, attention-drawing. Which will take doing something Danny might not be too comfortable with, exposure-wise, but which he'll do without complaint if it means that fucker is off the streets.

He hasn't the slightest clue what Steve has in mind, though, and it scares him half to death even as it arouses him unbearably.

"What can I get ya?" Steve says, leaning invitingly on the bar, in just the right way to showcase the long, delicious lines of his body. Danny's tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Why don't you surprise me?" he croaks.

Steve grins like Danny just handed him Christmas morning all wrapped up just for him. The apprehension in Danny's gut tightens. His pulse speeds up.

Steve turns around slowly, every movement a tease, and grabs a shotglass, pulling up a bottle each of Baileys and Kahlua. He deftly splashes half a shot of each in the glass, so the two layers don't mix, and to Danny's growing horror takes out a container of whipped cream from the fridge behind him, topping the shotglass off.

"Here y'go," Steve says, winking, "on the house." He looks like the cat who got the cream _and_ signed a lease for his first birdhouse.

As well he might. People around them were throwing the two of them appreciative glances already (admittedly, most were on Steve, and Danny's not at all bitter, okay), but _now_ there are whoops and catcalls of excitement, and people nudging each other in the side and pouting at him in what they probably think is an appealing manner.

Trust goddamn Steve "Asshole" McGarrett to serve Danny a Blow Job on the house. And Danny's going to have to drink it, oh yes, it would not do to disappoint his eager audience, even before he sees a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye. Steve tenses minutely, which is all the confirmation Danny needs.

Well. Two can play that game.

It's been years and years since Danny had shotglass cocktails by the dozen (a memorable night with Rachel springs to mind; the sex afterwards had been _spectacular_. Rachel always was a kinky one), but he hasn't forgotten how it's done. And McGarrett started it; he's going to have to deal with the consequences.

"Why, thank you very much," Danny says, letting his mouth slacken and stretch in a filthy grin and his eyes roam the expanse of Steve's muscled chest, barely covered by the excuse for a T-shirt. He looks Steve in the eye as he clasps his hands behind his back, leans down and, keeping his eyes locked to Steve's, lowers his mouth over the shotglass.

Whipped cream smears all over his lips, and the drink tastes far too sweet as he throws back his head and swallows it down, letting the shotglass slip out of his mouth and into his waiting palm, but it's well worth it by the way the crowd is going wild around them, yelling and whistling and cheering him on. And Steve, Steve looks shell-shocked, lips open and eyes glazed over a little, staring at Danny like he's never seen him before. Danny fights desperately against the blush rising up his neck, and hopes the lighting is too dim for anyone to make it out. It's probably in vain by the way the crowd's laughter turns heavy with hidden meaning.

"Is that all you have for me?" Danny taunts, swiping an errant blob of cream from the corner of his mouth and licking it off his thumb as dirtily as he can make it. Steve swallows dryly.

"Uh," he says before he shakes himself, and just like that the swagger is back in his posture and that cocky grin is curving his lips again. Danny prays no one makes him move away from the bar, because the state he's in, all the darkness in the world isn't going to hide how hard his cock is just from watching Steve's reaction.

"I would make you a Pornstar, only I think you might deck me. So how about this?"

He reaches down and pulls out a tall glass, throws a bunch of ice cubes in it, and adds a dash of light rum, strawberry schnapps, and oh, Danny sees where he's going with this, and so does the rest of their audience judging by the renewal of godawful noise to the side. And yes, Steve reaches for the cranberry juice next, and tops it off with orange juice before slamming a shaker over the glass and shaking the life out of it. Danny tries not to stare at his pecs, clearly visible underneath the flimsy shirt, and not even the memory of how exactly he'd found out the ingredients in Sex with the Bartender (and hadn't _that_ been a fun night) can distract him from the way Steve _moves_ , every twist of his wrist suggestive of something entirely different. The two-deep line of men around them stare with various degrees of sheer blind lust on their faces as Steve drains the liquid into another ice-filled glass and plops a long, thin, see-through straw inside.

"Think very highly of yourself, don'tcha?" Danny says gruffly, baiting his prey.

"Guy's gotta try," Steve replies amiably, watching as Danny sips his drink and doesn't fight the small smile of bliss from showing.

Danny makes a show of looking him over, all that skin, all that muscle, all that delicious _Steve_ standing there in front of him, inviting his eyes to linger, and he literally cannot help himself.

"All right, big guy. Tell you what. How 'bout I buy you a drink this time?"

Steve grins boyishly, looking thrilled with the suggestion. "Anything in particular you'd like me to have?" he teases, peering coyly at Danny through lowered lashes.

Danny laughs, gearing himself up to finish this with a bang. "I'll give you directions. You just make sure to keep up."

Steve's eyes gleam with the challenge. He's never really been able to resist one. "You're on," Steve says--purrs, more like, this is _so unfair_ when Danny has to fucking _concentrate_.

"Ready?" he smirks, holding Steve's eyes.

Steve nods, arms loose by his side. Danny notices his eyes slip to the left and back so quickly that he'd have missed it if he wasn't looking. Danny makes a show of looking around at the crowd, which yells its encouragements like hounds baying for blood. Danny has no doubt that he won't have the slightest trouble convincing them of what he and the bartender will be doing as soon as they step outside the club.

"Okay. In a shaker, pour one measure of vodka, one measure Amaretto, one measure Tia Maria, one measure Amarula Cream..."

The rest of the recipe gets dissolved under the wave of noise that the ring of people around them makes, because sure -- every one of these guys has had a Screaming Orgasm at one point or another, even just as a pick-up line. Steve starts grinning as soon as Danny mentions the Tia Maria, and by the time he gets to the cream and milk his lips are stretched so wide that Danny has real trouble concentrating. Steve pulls out a wine glass without being asked, blends the liquid and strains it over crushed ice.

"You promise?" Steve rumbles, batting those ridiculous eyelashes of his that make Danny want to do something unthinkably stupid like kiss his eyelids and count every last one while Steve sleeps in his arms.

"Oh, I look to you like I can't deliver?" he banters back, licking his lower lip and biting it. Steve's eyes lock onto it, and the look in his eyes, Jesus Christ. The lines are starting to blur for Danny; Steve doesn't even look remotely like he's playing a role right now, not at all -- yet that's just what it is, and Danny would do well to remember that.

"I can't wait to find out," Steve says, low and husky and god, why is the world doing this to him, he is going to have to go out that side door and pretend to pretend to make out with Steve, while all the time he keeps himself in check, keeps from giving it all away.

They've timed it well; a few more minutes of eye-humping while the guys around them smack Danny on the back and wish them a _good night_ , nudging Danny in the ribs until he's sore from it, and it's last orders. At which point Steve's unsuspecting colleagues practically push him out of the door and towards Danny, because after a show like that from the two of them Danny knows for a fact the club will be hopping for weeks to come, hoping for a repeat. Danny snags Steve's T-shirt when he gets close, and caution be damned, pulls him in into a kiss that's all lips and teeth and tongue and desperation right there in the middle of the bar.

And he knows, he _knows_ it's all make-believe, all for the benefit of the fucker standing not far away and scowling at them like the world is coming to an end, but Steve's lips feel so good on his, and Steve opens to him immediately, no coy nips and licks, just warm, wet heat for Danny to take and take.

Steve pulls away, and it takes Danny a moment too long to unclench his fingers from the fabric of Steve's shirt, to remember himself and force his hands to let Steve go. Steve looks dazed, certainly in no hurry to move away. Danny is completely down with that, except -- oh, wait, tiny little detail, _they're undercover in a gay club_. Fuck his life _so much_.

"Come on," Steve rumbles in his ear, snags one of his wrists and tugs him in his wake. The crowd parts like mist for Steve's bulk, and before Danny knows it they're out of the side door, blinking at the dimly lit car park.

"Is he following?" Steve whispers under his breath, head bowed so it looks like he's kissing Danny's neck. Instead, his breath tickles along Danny's skin in a thoroughly distracting manner.

"Yeah," Danny says, sounding rough himself. "Yeah, he was five steps behind us when we went out of the door." Because he is a detective, okay, detecting is what he does, and he was certainly not at all distracted by how fucking hot it felt to let Steve take the lead he so often demands, just this once.

"Let's take this to the car," Steve directs, sliding a hand down Danny's side in a way that any spectator would term possessive.

They'd talked about this, all four of them at Five-0 HQ -- get to the car, pretend to make out, keep an eye on each other's back, catch the perp in the act. They had not, however, talked about how focus-scattering Steve's hand on Danny's neck would feel, how fucking hard it would be for Danny to hold back his shudder, how obscenely gorgeous Steve's lips would feel sliding against Danny's.

All in all, it shouldn't feel like a blow of rejection when Steve pushes Danny away with a sharp jab, and catches the perp's arm as it swings a pipe at the space where Danny's head had been a second ago. It shouldn't, but it does; Danny feels cold all along his front, now that he's away from Steve's heat, and it takes him a moment to get his bearings well enough to catch the perp's arms and twist them behind his back, while Steve magics a pair of handcuffs from somewhere Danny does not want to think about just at the moment, and slaps them on him.

"Roger Bullows, I am arresting you for the attempted assault of two police officers, as well as on suspicion of causing severe bodily harm to Tom Freer and Makaio Keahi. You have the right to remain silent..."

Danny lets the rest of the arrest wash over him, leaning heavily against the side of the car and keeping himself from tensing up by sheer force of will. It's over. It's over, and he can go home and take an extremely unpleasant cold shower, and not think about McGarrett in those pants and that shirt ever again. Ever. Not even in the middle of the night, hand stuffed under the covers and inside his pants. No.

At least he'd managed to keep Steve from feeling the bulge under his belt, which was a feat of luck hitherto unknown in his life. Now if he can only think of something sufficiently vile to make it go away.

Steve finishes making the remarkably by-the-book arrest and hands him over to the two uniforms that have arrived in the time Danny had lost talking himself out of freaking out. Then he lopes over to where Danny is still propping up the car and stands before him, watching him closely.

"You okay, partner?" he says, looking Danny up and down in a way Danny had really hoped to avoid. Danny hunches his posture a little, as if that would help. Steve has his hands stuffed in the pockets of those jeans, and the fabric is pulling tight over _everything_ , his muscled thighs, his beyond-incredible ass, his impressive hard-on, his--wait.

Danny's eyes follow the contours of Steve's body again, and sure enough, Steve is bulging out his pants in extremely interesting ways.

Danny knows the second Steve notices the direction of Danny's gaze, because he flushes a dull pink and whips his hands out of his pockets--and then doesn't know what to do with them, shifting uncomfortably and finally crossing them in front of his chest and scowling a little.

"What? It's not like I can help it," he growls, and fuck if that isn't doing all sorts of uncomfortable things to Danny's groin. "You, with the mouth, and the--fuck, Danny, you weren't mincing your blows."

"I thought that was the point?" Danny says, just to be an ass, but he's grinning, and there's a curiously light feeling in his chest as Steve keeps standing there staring at him, not freaking out, not accusing him of god knows what, not flinching away like Danny has turned him gay or something equally disastrous. No, Steve's standing his ground, and okay, he looks a little apprehensive, like he's waiting for _Danny_ to have a big gay freak-out (which Danny isn't, because he is many things but a hypocrite isn't one of them), but he's not denying anything and everything like quite a few of the men Danny had encountered in those kinds of clubs.

Feeling brave all of a sudden, and a little giddy if he's honest with himself, Danny closes the distance between them and lifts his hands. Steve's eyes glint from behind his eyelashes, and he's reaching, too, settling his hands on Danny's hips like they belong there; and god, even that chaste touch feels _so damn good_ , Danny almost forgets what he's doing. But not quite.

"Good night, Chin," he says, unhooking the little camera from Steve's chest and removing the tiny battery at the back. The pinprick of red light winks out, and Danny puts the space between them needed to stuff it in his pockets. Chin will take the hint, if that display earlier in the office was any indication. Steve is staring at him like he's just done the cleverest thing ever. He probably finds it a turn-on, the big geek.

"Now then," Danny says, licking his lips as he casts his eye over all that toned muscle, apparently his to claim. "Ground rules. I'm not saying no, you understand, I just want to know where I stand. Is this a one-off thing for you, Steven? Adrenaline needing to be worked out? Leftovers from the performance we just gave?" He leaves his hands by his side, wanting so badly to touch that he's aching with it, but wanting to know, first, if he's going to have to pretend a bit more that that would be okay, would be enough for him. Because _fuck_ but he wants Steve, bad enough that he'll take him any way he's allowed.

Steve looks cagey. "Is that what you want?" he asks flatly, eyes growing shuttered until that twinkle in them is all but extinguished. His hands flex on Danny's hips, like he wants to haul him closer but isn't letting himself.

Danny looks at Steve, at the renewed stiffness of his posture, at the way he's not quite biting the inside of his cheek like he's keeping a thousand words inside, at the way he watches Danny like a hawk for the slightest tell, and something inside him warms and breaks out of its tightly sealed cocoon, washes over him in a wave of relief and the almost irresistible desire to kiss Steve again.

"Not really, no," he says, and he means it to come out flippant and light, but instead it sounds like more of an ultimatum than Danny expected.

Steve's relieved grin breaks through, and his eyes soften. "Thank god," he says, and this time he does haul Danny closer, until there's barely a few atoms of air between them and Danny can feel _all_ of Steve along his front. It's intoxicating. Steve leans closer, slowly, like there's even the slightest chance that Danny would, could, stop him at this stage. And Danny's done waiting.

He surges up, muffles the groan that he can't hold back into Steve's lips, presses his hand to the back of Steve's neck and pulls him down, licks into his mouth--and Steve lets him, opens for him again just like he did before. It's starting to dawn on Danny, in the part of his brain not obliterated by the feel of Steve's stomach fluttering against his, that Steve is a really, really horrible actor -- because there is no difference whatsoever in the way he kisses Danny now, when he's clearly not pretending, and the way he had kissed Danny when he ostensibly _was_. It only makes the warmth in his chest flare hotter, makes him pull Steve in tighter, tilt his hips against Steve's until it's _Steve_ who's moaning into his mouth.

Steve's hands clench on his back, where they have migrated, and force him away a scant inch until there's the smallest space between their mouths.

"At this point I would advise a tactical retreat so as to avoid being detained for disturbing the peace," Steve mutters, voice rough and panting like he's just ran up and down his favorite mountain trail _twice_.

Danny tries to catch his breath, and fails. "What?" he rasps, chasing mindlessly after Steve's tempting mouth.

"Let's get home before I rip your clothes off," Steve translates, his growl vibrating across Danny's spit-slick lips, and fuck if it doesn't send Danny up in flames, hips jerking forward, sliding his cock across the top of Steve's thigh. Danny whimpers with the delicious, not-nearly-enough friction.

"Fucking hell, McGarrett, you are a goddamned health hazard if I ever saw one. Get your ass in that car before I show you how it's done," he bitches, pushing Steve away, which achieves precisely _nothing_ since his fingers are still tangled in Steve's clothes. Steve laughs like the asshole he is, all flushed and ruffled and blindingly, obviously hard, _for Danny_.

They can't get to the car fast enough; Steve breaks any number of traffic laws getting them back to his house, and for once Danny doesn't mind. He slides a covetous, greedy hand up Steve's thigh, stopping with his little finger pressed against Steve's inseam, leaves it there, where he's sure the heat of it is seeping through the fabric of Steve's jeans and into his skin. Steve honest-to-god whimpers, fights to keep his eyes from falling closed in bliss.

"Eyes on the road, McGarrett," Danny drawls, and Steve sends him a dirty look. Danny smirks. Steve presses his foot down onto the pedal.

He yanks the Camaro into his drive, takes the key out of the ignition, _growls_ , and pounces. Danny, wise to his Neanderthal ways by now, is already half-out of the car by the time Steve's hands close on the displaced air in his wake.

"Ah ah ah!" Danny says, wagging his finger and dancing away from Steve's desperate attempt to grab him. "I am not being ravished on your front lawn, I am not that kind of a girl, you'd better get with the program, Steven."

Inside the car, Steve stills.

'Oh, shit,' Danny has time to think, before he legs it up the driveway, punching in the alarm code as he hears the Camaro's door slam shut and heavy footsteps race up the drive behind him. He's almost giggling with excitement by the time he shoves the front door open, and makes it about three steps inside before the door slams and Steve barrels into him, lifting him and letting his momentum carry them into the living room and down onto the couch. Danny's laughing full-out now, high on exhilaration and sheer _joy_ , a fresh burst of adrenaline pumping through his veins as Steve climbs on top of him and pins his hands over his head, leaning over him to make his point before planting his ass down squarely onto Danny's groan. The laugh trails off into a moan when their cocks slide together, and Danny's aware of an answering groan from above. Steve looks down at him all disheveled and spread out for his gaze, Danny has no doubt, and the look in his eyes makes Danny's breath hitch. Steve looks wild, half-crazy, desperate for him, and Danny's never wanted anything more.

Steve shifts experimentally on top of him, and Danny's hips arch into the pressure entirely without the aid of his conscious brain. A slow smile spreads on Steve's face, smug and way-too-overconfident, but Danny's letting it slide just this once. He is, after all, a sure thing.

Doesn't mean he's not going to make Steve work for it, though. He tries to move, squarely to feel the weight of Steve bearing him down, pinning him in place. It's _exquisite_.

"Well, then. Now that you have me, what do you plan on doing with me?" he asks slyly, letting his eyes grow heavy and his tongue slip out to wet his lips. Steve swallows dryly, eyes fixed onto the tip of it like it's the only thing in the world for him. He swoops down and draws it into his mouth, sucks on it lightly, and fuck if there isn't a direct link between Danny's tongue and his cock, which twitches desperately, still confined in his pants. Steve shifts his hips, the goddamned tease that he is, and Danny whines in his throat, trying uselessly to buck up against the weight. And then Steve's hips start making those small circles on top of him, and Danny's brain short-circuits a little.

"Fuck, Steve," he pants into Steve's mouth, chasing after it when Steve pulls away. "Fucking _do_ something already."

Steve looks no better -- he's flushed, hair everywhere, looking a little wild around the eyes. He stares down at Danny for a moment before he rears up, releasing his hands and tackling his shirt with intent. He folds himself down into a near loop and sucks a kiss into Danny's neck, bared by the open collar of his shirt. Danny grunts something inarticulate, uses his newly freed hands to grab two handfuls of Steve's ridiculous ass and squeeze. Steve lets out a high whine and sucks harder, biting at the spot, and Danny can barely breathe now with how much he wants to come, wants Steve's mouth on other places, everywhere.

Steve makes short work of the buttons of Danny's shirt, spreads it open and wastes no time in running his fingers over Danny's chest, tangling in the small hairs and following them to a hidden nipple, flicking it with his thumb. Danny jerks with it, has always been hellishly sensitive there, and by the look in Steve's eyes he's figuring that one all by himself. Danny retaliates by tugging his t-shirt up and over his head, indulging himself and splaying his hands over that six pack that McGarrett keeps flashing every time he takes his shirt off. It flexes below his fingers, and he digs his blunt nails in, just a little. Steve shudders, bowing his head and letting out a rush of air that sends another spike of want through Danny's groin. He lets his fingers slip lower, to the button of those sinful jeans, following the line of Steve's rigid cock down to its base and back.

"Fuck," Steve chokes out, "fuck, Danny, please."

And oh, Danny _likes_ that, likes those words in Steve's mouth, wants to hear more of that delectable begging up close and personal. He closes his hand over Steve's length, curls his fingers as far round as they'll go, and squeezes.

It's like he's flipped some kind of switch; Steve thrusts down into his hand once, twice, then pulls away with a pained groan and rips his pants open, shoving them down together with his--wait, is that a _thong_? Steve McGarrett has been parading around _all night_ with a _silk thong_ caressing his bits and getting stuck in places it really shouldn't. Jesus fucking Christ, Danny thinks a little wildly, Chin and Kono are really trying to kill him.

"Don't fucking laugh or I'll kill you," Steve grates out, wiggling a little to free the string. It slips from between his ass cheeks at last, and Steve throws his head back and whimpers, hips pumping into nothing but air. Danny wants to laugh, he really does, except that it's the hottest fucking thing he has ever seen _in his life_.

"Jesus," he croaks, eyes glued to Steve's cock, bared by the sleek black fabric, thick and long and damp at the tip with pre-come, and Danny's mouth waters so bad he can barely swallow it back.

Steve watches him intently, and he seems to like what he sees, because that grin should be _illegal_. Free of his own confines, he switches to attacking Danny's.

Danny's gasp is half-relieved and half-pleading when his own cock slips out; he urges Steve back over him with his hands, but Steve won't go, he's staring down at Danny's groin with this look in his eyes, like he's starving for Danny's cock in his mouth, and fuck if it doesn't make said cock jump and drip from its slit. At this stage Danny would be happy with anything on him, a mouth, a hand, as long as it's Steve's. He tightens his grip on Steve's hips, tugs desperately once more.

Blessedly, Steve goes, braces himself on his arms as he settles on top of Danny, kicking off both their pants and stretching out full-length. Danny's eyes roll back into his head when their lengths rub together, slick with what moisture there is between them, and he throws his head back instinctively. Steve's mouth latches back onto his neck immediately, it's like he has some kind of neck fetish, he keeps licking at the base of his throat, where Danny's tie usually knots--oh. _Oh_.

Jesus Christ, this guy will be the death of him.

Danny debates addressing this most recent discovery, but he doesn't think his own addled brain could do justice to the _vast_ amount of merciless teasing he's about to unleash on McGarrett. He files it away for later and chooses instead to fist his hands over McGarrett's ass again, urging him to move. He bends one leg at the knee, his bad knee to get it out of the way of Steve's bulk, leans it on the back of the sofa and cants his hips so their cocks slide longer, tighter together. Steve muffles a groan in his neck. Danny rolls his eyes, grabs the back of Steve's head and tugs him up, nudges him to get at his mouth, and loses himself into the kiss. And then a hand is worming its way between them, and Steve is bending his own leg to put a smidgen of space between their bodies, and there is friction on both their cocks that's just this side of too-rough, and Danny pretty much forgets that anything exists outside of Steve's mouth, Steve's chest, Steve's cock, just _Steve_.

Later, they lie spent and panting, tangled up in each other, a godawful mess between them that Danny finds kind of gross but can't make himself want to move enough to address. Steve kisses that spot on his neck again, rubs his lips and stubbled chin against it. It twinges just enough to hint at the kind of tenderness that forecasts a spectacular bruise in the morning; Danny can't quite bring himself to care. There will be time for all the mocking in the world later, at a time that isn't taken up by Steve lying half-over him, warm and loose-limbed, huffing little contented breaths over Danny's skin. Danny slides a hand in Steve's hair, scratches at his scalp a little just to feel him melt even further onto Danny's chest. Words seem to have left Danny altogether; nothing feels important enough to warrant breaking up this peace between them.

And then Steve bites down on that spot again, and _sucks_. Danny jumps a little, flashes of pleasure mixing with a hint of pain, just the right amount to have his hips jerking instinctively. Trust McGarrett to ruin it; Danny would lay odds that the goof has never managed to lie still for more than ten minutes at a time without being tied down, and maybe not even then. Ah, well. Steve's just asking for it now; who is Danny to disappoint him?

He fights his grin back down, takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth.

 

\-----


End file.
